The Murder Bag (16 page)

‘Not nearly enough.’

‘And I saw you. You were a bit rough with the girl, Piggy. I think you hurt her.’

He smirked. ‘Natasha? She was tired and emotional, that’s all. Took her in hand. For the best.’ He took a better look at me. ‘You were up at Pak’s office, weren’t you?’

‘Pak?’

‘Paki Khan.’

‘I understood Mr Khan was Anglo-Indian.’

‘I don’t want to split hairs, constable, but that’s a kind of Paki, isn’t it? Not that I’m racist. It’s just an old school name. An affectionate nickname. I
adore
Indians.’ He surveyed his fellow mourners and sighed. ‘Christ, this place looks like a convention of
Big Issue
sellers.’ And then to himself, shaking his large red head: ‘What happened to you, Adam?’

‘Why aren’t the others here? The old gang.’

‘Well, Ned must be in Helmand by now. Ben’s a public figure, of course. Might not look good in the
Daily Mail
hanging out at the AGM of Junkies Anonymous. And I believe the Pak’s in court, probably defending some gyppo’s human rights.’

‘Excuses, excuses.’

‘I know. Dreadful, isn’t it? But as you can see from his new chums, Adam was always a bit different.’

‘Because he was a heroin addict? Cut him off, did you, Piggy?’

Philips chuckled. ‘Do you think we care about that? Some of the best families have drug
issues
. Dreadful word. No, Adam was always an outsider. Adam was always different. Even more than Paki Khan – who was, lest we forget, a Paki. Thing about old Pak – bloody good cricketer, the Pak.
Bloody
good. Opened the first eleven’s batting three years in a row. Hitting sixes gets you accepted, see. But Adam was a different creature entirely. Not because of the drugs. Because he was a scholarship boy.
The rest of us, our parents paid for us to be there. Poor little Adam had to get there on merit. Strumming his banjo. Blowing his flute. Oh, I’ve offended you now. You think I’m a snob.’

‘When did you last see him, Piggy?’

‘Could you please stop calling me that? It was mildly amusing the first three or four times. But it’s what we call unearned intimacy, constable.’

‘Detective.’

‘Of course. Sorry, constable.’

‘Piggy is just an old school name,’ I said. ‘An affectionate nickname.’

‘I don’t remember you at school,’ he said. ‘Were you cleaning the lavatories?’

‘Come on, Piggy. When did you last see Adam Jones?’

‘Not for years. He came to me, begging for money. Boo hoo hoo. Poor little me. Look what a mess I’ve made of my veins. Don’t know where my next fix is coming from. All of that. I gave him what I had. And he went away.’

‘It didn’t concern you that he would spend the money on heroin?’

‘Not really. I wasn’t expecting him to spend it on low fat yoghurt.’

‘But why would anyone want to kill him? Hugo Buck I can understand. The woman-beating bastard.’

Philips gave me a sly look. ‘Not soft on our Natasha, are you? Bit rich for your blood, I reckon. Out of your pay grade.’

I gently touched his arm. ‘I’ll ask you again. Very politely. Why would anyone want to kill a homeless heroin addict, Piggy?’

He shot me a furious look. ‘Look, you’ve not earned the right to call me that name. It’s a stupid name. A childish name. Give me
your
name. Give me your warrant card number. What exactly are you doing here?’

‘I’m trying to understand. You must have some thoughts. And don’t give me the line about Hugo Buck banging the help. Don’t tell me that Adam Jones had it coming. Your friend Captain King told us that the deaths are unrelated. Mr Khan told us the same thing. But I don’t think they believe it. And I don’t think you do, Piggy.’

But he wasn’t listening to me. Mrs Jones had entered the crematorium with Rosalita. They sat down in the front row directly in front of the coffin. I thought that Philips was shocked by the sight of Adam’s mother. I had seen her far more recently and she shocked me. Her face was swollen with chemotherapy and twisted with grief. The coffin she stood before could have been her own.

But Guy Philips wasn’t looking at Mrs Jones. He was looking at Rosalita.

‘Christ,’ he said, ‘it’s the same housekeeper. She’s aged a bit.’

The minister was talking: ‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery.’

When the coffin had slid into the flames and the curtains had primly swished across the mouth of the furnace, I stood up.

‘Are you off?’ Philips said. ‘Very pleasant talking to you, constable.’

‘We haven’t talked yet, Piggy,’ I said.

As I walked down the aisle to the front the few mourners coming in the opposite direction eased out of my path with the instinctive cringe of people who are used to getting out of the way.

I found Mrs Jones contemplating the empty spaces.

‘We should have waited before starting the service,’ she said. ‘More people might have come.’

‘Ma’am,’ Rosalita said. ‘We had our time slot, ma’am. Forty-five minutes, ma’am. We had to begin, didn’t we?’

Mrs Jones smiled weakly when she saw me. ‘You came,’ she said. ‘How thoughtful.’ She took my hands. ‘I enjoyed our talk.’

‘I’d like to talk to you again,’ I said. ‘About the old days. When Adam was a boy.’

She was suddenly distressed. ‘It’s all so long ago,’ she said, pulling her hands away, turning to the woman by her side. ‘I don’t remember. Rosalita, tell him, will you?’

Rosalita put her arm around Mrs Jones, and glared at me.

‘You upset her now.’

‘I just don’t remember,’ Mrs Jones said.

‘Of course not, ma’am, why should you?’ Rosalita said. ‘That’s all right.’

They disappeared into a side room to collect the sad little pot containing the final remains of Adam Jones. I looked back for Guy Philips, but he had gone. Everyone had gone. I sat in the front row for a long time, feeling my face burning with the heat of the flames.

The crematorium’s car park was almost empty by the time I drove away. But at the end of a quiet green lane I saw Rosalita waiting at a bus stop.

I stopped, rolled down my window.

‘I remember,’ she said.

I took her to a small café in Golders Green and bought her tea. She said she had to send a text message.

‘My son,’ she explained. ‘He pick me up.’

I sipped a triple espresso as she typed and sent it. Then I watched her staring at her tea. I thought she was already regretting speaking to me.

‘What do you remember, Rosalita?’

She nodded, relieved to begin.

‘Adam’s friends. The brothers. The Indian one. I remember all of them. And the one who died. And the one who was there today. I saw him. A man now. I saw him sitting at the back with you. And I remember.’

‘But what do you remember?’

She nodded again.

‘They would come in the summer. The boys. All the boys would come. When Mr and Mrs Jones were away.’

‘When Adam’s parents were on holiday, his friends would come? They stayed at the house when his parents were away?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did they do?’

Silence. Then she shook her head.

‘They were not good boys.’ How old was she? Mid forties. Two decades ago she would have been in her twenties. Two decades ago she would have been young herself.

‘Adam was a good boy. When he was little. A sweet boy. But he was not good when he was with them.’

‘What happened? Did something happen?’

She stared at her tea.

She wouldn’t look at me.

‘Did they – did they do something to
you
?’

She looked up as a young man walked into the café. Early twenties, the blue overalls of a garage mechanic. He spoke to his mother in Tagalog.

‘We don’t want no trouble,’ he said, taking his mother’s arm, lifting her from her seat.

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Where are you going? What’s wrong?’

‘We don’t want to talk to the police,’ he said. ‘We don’t want any trouble.’

‘What are you worried about?’ I said to him. ‘You don’t have anything to worry about.’

But they were not listening to me now. They were arguing in their own language. Rosalita’s son still had her by the arm.

‘Are you worried about your visa status?’ I tried. ‘You don’t have to worry about that. I don’t care about that stuff. I can help you with all that.’

But they were leaving.

‘Rosalita,’ I said, ‘what happened at that school?’

She turned at the door of the small café.

‘It all went to hell,’ she said.

12

PC BILLY GREENE
lifted the twelve-ounce gloves in front of his face and marched slowly across the ring in a totally straight line. Fred was waiting for him. My heart sank as I watched from ringside.

It was the Charge of the Light Brigade in there.

Fred stuck out a jab and Greene, looking heavier after long days on desk duty, blocked it high on his gloves. There wasn’t much force behind the blow but it was hard enough to slap Greene’s gloves back against his face.

Above the gloves and inside the thick leather headguard, I saw Greene’s eyes blink with surprise, the bridge of his nose grazed red. Fred danced sideways, light and springy as a dancer on the balls of his feet, arms dangling loosely by his side. Greene plodded after him.

Fred fired a flurry of jabs. They all detonated harmlessly on Greene’s tight, high guard. Emboldened, he stuck out a shy jab of his own. Fred’s head seemed to whip sideways as if on a string and the punch sailed harmlessly over his shoulder.

Now Fred was in the corner. He waved Greene forward, grinning, the blue mouthguard showing. Flat-footed, Greene accepted the invitation. He threw another jab. When he wanted to, Fred had a guard as cosy as a nuclear bunker – hands held high and close together, elbows tucked into his ribcage, chin down. He bounced against the ropes, inviting Greene to hit him. And he did. Jab. Hook. Jab. All of it unanswered by Fred.

Greene’s confidence visibly rose.

He unloaded a right, as slow as a fat man leaving a buffet. Fred slipped the punch and, more from instinct than malice, dug a short left hook into Greene’s ribcage. The air came out of him with a whoosh and he sank to one knee, his head hanging down, his elbow tucked into his side, as if trying to understand the source of this sudden and terrible pain.

Fred was immediately kneeling by the bigger man’s side, a protective arm around his shoulder.

‘I know I should be able to hit a bit harder,’ Greene said, his face contorted with pain. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s not about how hard you can hit,’ Fred said. ‘It’s about how hard you can
get
hit and then keep going.’

At this hour the gym was almost empty. They went on the pads, Fred holding up the worn leather mitts for Greene to hit, all the while giving him instructions.

‘Get that jab out faster. Don’t let the punch fade away. Harder, faster, sharper. Keep your guard up. You’re so lucky to be training!’

And behind it all, there was the secret knowledge that boxing gives you.
There is good stuff inside you. You are better than you know.

Outside Fred’s gym, I shuddered in the cold night air, and hunched my shoulders inside my leather jacket. On the far side of Charterhouse Street the men of Smithfield had begun their night’s work, and as they laughed and shouted at each other, their breath came out as steam. Winter was no longer coming. Winter was here. The full yellow moon of October hung low over the dome of St Paul’s. You only see that moon once a year. A hunter’s moon, they call it.

I turned up my collar and hurried home to take over from Mrs Murphy.

The next day I left Savile Row in plenty of time to make my two p.m. appointment with the Right Honourable Ben King, MP.

The address I had was just the other side of Piccadilly on St James’s Street and it should not have taken me more than a few minutes to get there. But I walked up and down the street staring at windows and doors and the address in my hand, feeling like a fool.

Because Ben King’s club was behind one of the many unmarked doors on St James’s Street and if you did not know it was there then you were never meant to find it.

Through one window I glimpsed silver heads, all men, dipped behind newspapers. I took a chance, and this was the place. Inside there was a counter where a uniformed porter took my coat. He had hung it up on what looked like a row of old school pegs before he noticed I was still waiting.

‘Anything else, sir?’ he said.

‘Ticket?’ I said, already sensing that I had made some stupid mistake.

‘Sir?’

‘Don’t I need some sort of ticket for my coat?’

There was another porter behind the front desk and I saw him smiling to himself. The porter who had hung up my coat grinned with hideous good humour.

‘Oh, no tickets in here, sir,’ he said. ‘Your coat is quite safe with us.’

I was escorted into the dining area with my face burning. It was more like a room in a private house than a restaurant. Solitary diners muttered to themselves behind broadsheets. An elderly man in a three-piece pinstripe suit sipped a glass of red wine. Another dozed peacefully, a bowl of rhubarb and custard cooling before him.

And Ben King, the youngest man in the room, Member of Parliament for Hillingdon North, was rising with a smile to greet me.

He was alone at the table but the waiter was clearing away two places. Because of the timing, I had assumed I was going to be offered lunch. Apparently not. The clean-picked bones of a grilled fish were on one plate, a scrap of bloody steak on the other.

‘DC Wolfe,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry this was so difficult to schedule. My apologies. Please.’

We ordered coffee, black for both of us – I couldn’t risk asking for my favourite, a triple espresso, fearing more blank stares followed by suppressed laughter – and King fixed me with a frank but friendly gaze, leaning forward, giving me his full attention.

‘My office is here to help your investigation in any way it can,’ he said. ‘As, of course, am I.’

He had a smooth, clean-cut, untouched version of his brother’s face. He was a reassuring presence. I could understand why someone would vote for him.